O none but unthrifts, dare my love you know,
  You had a Father, let your Son say so.
Not from the stars doe I my judgement plucke,
And yet me thinkes I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evill lucke,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons qualitie,
Nor can I fortune to breefe minuts tell;
Pointing to each his thunder, raine and winde,
Or say with Princes if it shall goe well
By oft predict that I in heaven finde.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As truth and beautie shall together thrive
If from thy selfe, to store thou wouldst convert:
  Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
  Thy end is Truths and Beauties doome and date.
When I consider every thing that growes
Holds in perfection but a little moment.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but showes
Whereon the Stars in secret influence comment.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheared and checkt even by the selfe-same skie:
Vaunt in their youthfull sap, at height decrease,
And were their brave state out of memory.
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wastfull time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
  And all in war with Time for love of you
  As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.

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